


This is Just a Dream

by all_the_angels



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Dreams, Hallucinations, M/M, Suicide thoughts, ghost!Patrick, its two and i still dont know how to tag again, mention of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:44:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9287093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_the_angels/pseuds/all_the_angels
Summary: Pete can't do this anymore, he is going to jump. How can he live in a world full of no hope?And then there is Patrick, who may or not be a ghost who understands what he is going through completely.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I hate my internet. I have to re-type this entire thing, fml. I'll make it short, because it's 2 in the morning and I really need sleep, despite not being that tired. This was really random, an idea that came to me a week ago when I was once again suffering through verbal abuse. And now my oldest sister, who is what has been keeping me alive through all of it, moved out with her boyfriend and ... yeah. But enough of that. Hope you enjoy! (sorry for any mistakes, I don't have a beta) (***trigger warning for suicide thoughts and self-harm***)

\---

An peaceful feeling washed over him as he stared across the lake, the moon shimmering tauntingly on the ripples made in the water by the slightest breeze. Peaceful, but not enough to take away all the emotion swirling in his mind, running through his veins, poisoning his brain and his blood and entire existence. 

It was a blend of feelings, so entwined and blurred together that it didn't make sense. He couldn't make sense of it. There was too much, way too much to think about. He couldn't think straight, he couldn't grasp onto but one thought at a time, and a unmoving weight felt heavy on his shoulders.

Hopelessness - the most obvious emotion he felt. He felt like an anchor, dragged to the bottom of the ocean with no hope of returning to the surface. Sink, sink, sink. No ability to swim, to just ... sink.

Fear - not of his mind, not of himself, but of this. The hurt and sadness and loneliness that would only get worse if he let it continue. If he didn't do something about it, it would overtake him, cause him to lose sight of e v e r y t h i n g. It would continuously torture him through the day, the voices would get louder and more violent at night when his mind refused to shut down. When his fears came true. When the monster he had come to know as a part of himself attacked the strongest, at full force. Relentless.

Loneliness - it was such a strong emotion, he felt like his heart was blackening and shriveling up, void of anything but that. He had a few friends, people who could actually look past his odd quirks and the obvious self-hatred he had for himself, but no one understood it. No one could quite grasp the feeling of being so alone despite being surrounded by people who cared, who begged him to rid the horrid thoughts from his mind. They didn't realize that he couldn't just be done with them, he couldn't control them. He was alone in this, nobody understood him. Not now, not ever.

Anxiety - over everything. Every. Little. Thing. The panic was rising so high that it was blinding. It seemed strange to compare an emotion to being blinded, but it overtook his vision entirely, clouded his mind and melded in with the worry and unexplainable guilt and hate and anger and fear and even more worry ...

His legs kicked back and forth restlessly over the side of the bridge, the only outward movement from him. Inside, however, was a war. Bullets of killkillkill and the shredding edges of knives that spoke youreuselessandahopelesscase, slurred words spoken in dripping blood. Dark red, poisonous, dangerous blood. An invisible battle he was helpless to. He could do nothing but succumb to the fight, to die a little more each time a bullet struck him, to just get one step closer to losing it all. To giving it up.

He gripped the wood edge that reached just below his neck tightly in his hands, the old, splintering wood digging into his palm. He couldn't have cared less as he stared down at the lake, the inky, jet black water opening up and begging for him to do it. To just ... do it. 

What else did he have to live for? This was his life. This was what made him. He hated the concerned looks his select few friends cast his direction when they thought he wasn't looking. The hallucinations that haunted him in his every move, a clinging shadow that matched and copied his every move. The constant struggle to keep his head above the water and appear perfectly fine while in the midst of being drowned by his own sorrows and depression.

He could only put on an act for so long.

Who would miss him if he ended it tonight? No one. Who would give a second thought if he just disappeared, vanished from the face of the earth into the depths of the chilled, icy water? Not one soul. 

There was no hope for him. He had tried for years. Years. Nothing changed, nothing differed, nothing helped. He was a helpless case. The voices, the delusions, the merged and painful, killing emotions. He couldn't be helped. Not now, not ever.

His fingers lessened their grip and he could feel his legs still as he scooted closer to the edge of the bridge. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, the decision made with no tears or regret. He used the hold he had on the railing to push forward - but stopped short when an unrecognized noise broke through his muddled thoughts. 

It took all the strength in the world, or as much as he could muster at the moment, for him to look away from the water and turn his head to the side, to stare at the source of the sound. For a minute he thought that, in the dim moonlight of the night, his mind was playing tricks with him again. That the dark shape beside him was just another burst of his imagination getting the best of him, another creature come to haunt him and ridicule him and to convince him further on what a hopeless person he was to society, to all of life. 

The figure adopted human-like features that he could see as soon as they likewise turned their head in his direction and he caught sight of the side of a face. The skin was a stunning surprise, a striking contrast against the dark night lighting. So pure and pale, almost porcelain. A curve of features on his face that weren't too sharp, just soft enough, with light pink lips untouched by the horror and cruelty of the world. Of course, this was only half of the man's face. The other side was covered in darkness that he couldn't see through, and his hair was concealed by a hat, just the tips of it peeking out from beneath. He was dressed in pure black, the moon practically glowing off his exposed hands that were locked together in his lap, the part of his face illuminated. Aside from the ghastly white skin and pureness of what was seen, the man seemed to give off the air of mystery, a mystical feeling that felt of the material a cloud was made of. Misty, shimmery, and his image wavered just slightly as he stared at him.

Maybe it was another hallucination, coming to bid him farewell before he ended his life in the watery graveyard.

Until it - well, he - spoke: "Hi, I'm Patrick. Who are you?"

Regardless that it took an unusually long amount of time for the words to register in his mind and for him to come up with a response that didn't sound like he was in the middle of trying to kill himself (which he was, of course, but he didn't want the stranger knowing that), the man who called himself Patrick seemed unbothered. Just waited paitently, staring at him with a small smile, a calmly content expression obvious on his features.

"I-I'm Pete."

The words were forced like the air from his lungs were. Harsh and sharp, with a sense of the hopelessinsecurefearfulpainworryguiltangeranxietypanic in each syllable. Patrick didn't so much as flinch at the hiss of words.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Pete!" Patrick said enthusiastically, his voice just a notch too loud for the silent, empty night. "What are you doing out here?"

Lie. Tell this stranger that he went out for a walk when he couldn't sleep, had been out late with friends and decided to stop here for a moment. Lie, just like he had done for years without so much as batting an eyelash. Lie and convince everyone that he was fine. That he didn't need help, that his life wasn't falling to pieces and was gradually turning into a living nightmare for him to just get up every morning. But ... there was something about this man who appeared younger than him, something that was almost magical. Something about him that urged Pete not to lie, not to cover up his problems with anything that would come off as normal instead of a suicide attempt. And the urging was stronger than the fight to keep his mouth shut, so he told Patrick point blank. No lies this time.

"I came to kill myself. To get rid of my life. My horrible, helpless life."

He stared at his hands, away from Patrick's unchanging face. His eyes caught sight of the scars on his bare arms, the numerous, uncountable cuts and slices and scars from past attempts to take away all the pain. At first, the very beginning, he could just cut away all his worries and problems. But then the inner pain increased and the slices got deeper and deeper, helped less and less ... It had all led to this.

"Don't be ashamed, Pete," Patrick's voice was soft, like a whisper that echoed in his ear for several seconds after it was spoken. "I came here for that reason, too. Once. It's nothing to be ashamed about."

Pete resisted the urge to turn and stare at the other man beside him, who all of a sudden seemed inches closer to Pete than he had been before.

Patrick's words were spoken like the feeling of velvet being pulled gently between your fingers, soft and smooth. They brought to mind the idea of a tranquil evening, each time he opened his mouth and spoke Pete could see the lake becoming less and less of a death trap and more and more of just that. A lake. At night. With the moon glowing down relaxingly on the casually flowing water. His grip on the rough railing became less tight, scooting back ever so slightly as he listened to what Patrick said.

"It's a great place for just that, to be honest," said Patrick, turning his gaze over the edge of the rail. "But if you kind of squint your eyes against the glare of the water it's not so bright, and if you loosen up your shoulders a bit, it's actually really pretty out there." Pete found himself following the instructions without even giving it second thought. He was now facing Patrick, barely aware that the voices and mixed emotions had settled for the moment. "The water itself holds a lot of mysteries. Bones of others who actually made it past the edge of this bridge, who found it the easiest way to make it out alive is to just jump. Jump, fall, be free. Yeah, seems like a dream doesn't it?"

Pete nodded, transfixed by the way Patrick spoke in a sing-song voice, little bubbles rising here and there, like the sound of water rushing over smooth, round pebbles in a river.

"Dreams aren't always what they seem," continued Patrick, seemingly oblivious to Pete's stare. "Some can be good, some can be bad. Others, like this one, seem like the answer to everything. Because you've tried everything. You've exhausted yourself trying, and you're at the point of breaking. There isn't any hope, your life consists of nothing but this. It's the answer to everything." He turned to look at Pete. "But believe me, Pete. This is not the way to go. This isn't the answer. This isn't ... this isn't what you want. I know what you want. I can see it in your eyes. This ... this "answer" to all your problems, it's a big ball of hope on your face. You hope that tonight will be the end of everything, you won't ever have to deal with this again. Not if you just jump."

The words he spoke were correct.

"You don't want to jump, Pete. Not really. Not if you knew, not if you could just see what would happen if you do that. You won't be free of your problems, you won't be rid of what you suffered. What you're suffering. You will only have to deal with that, plus the guilt of doing it. You can't see it now, but there are people who care about you. People who you may not know would spend countless hours mourning over your death, who would blame themselves for not stopping you ahead of time. They would beat themselves up like you do every day, mentally. Physically. They would get to the point you're at, and they would jump; just trying to get away from the guilt and the sadness and unbearable pain. There are many more people than you think. And trust me when I tell you it's the worst feeling in the world to watch those people hurt because of you. It hurts - worse than being killed by the blade of a knife, the piercing pain of a bullet, worse than even the feeling you have right now. It isn't worth it."

The memories of Pete's two closest friends, Joe and Andy, came to mind as Patrick spoke. He could see their worried eyes, their frowns of concern for him. He could see them if he was gone, too. Both would be blaming themselves for not seeing it happening beforehand, not taking any action. And his mother, weeping helplessly for full nights, holding it in during the day when she had to fake being strong for those around her. His other friends, the ones who hadn't been as close to him, attending his funeral and watching as they lowered the coffin into the ground, covered it with dirt until it was fully buried.

"I know things will get better," Patrick's voice wavered as a light breeze brushed passed Pete's ears. "Keep it together, it will be worth it. You've got to wait this out. Again and again. Keep trying. Someday things will be perfect, everything will work out. I know you can't see this now, but you've got to trust me. You've got to believe me. You do not want to do this."

"B-But -" 

"No. No, you can do this," Patrick said firmly, yet the gentleness remained. "You can do this, Pete. This ... THIS does not define you. You are, and have been for a good long while, at a rough point in your life, but you can overcome it. You, Pete Wentz, can overcome it. You will get through this alive, and you are not alone. I know it feels like it, but you aren't. You are not alone. I promise."

The younger-looking man, who all of a sudden was sitting directly next to Pete to the point of them almost touching, placed his hand on Pete's, leaned his head on Pete's shoulder. His hand felt deathly cold, but not unsettling. His breath was cool against Pete's neck, almost like frost that melted as soon as it made contact with his warm skin. Pete closed his eyes, unable to resist the wave of solace that radiated from this man, Patrick. His mind, for once, was silent. The violent voices faded out and were replaced with Patrick's breaths, Pete's slowing heartbeat, the rise and fall of their chests in unison as if it were timed. All the emotions that had earlier brought Pete out here, in the middle of the night, were gone, and instead he felt what he hadn't in a long time. 

He felt safe.

"You aren't alone, Pete," Patrick said quietly. "I will be here for you. I promise."

When a light, but nonetheless surprising kiss brushed against the skin on Pete's bare neck, cold and pillowy-soft lips, his eyes fluttered open. To his confusion, instead of on the bridge overlooking the lake, with the man he had only just met - if he wasn't an illusion of Pete's mind - he was in his bedroom, with the moon shining through his window, tucked under the blankets on his bed. He looked around, but there was no sight of Patrick, no hint that he had even been here. 

Blinking, Pete shifted under the covers to get more comfortable. Confused as he was, he wasn't going to miss up on an opportunity in which he actually felt capable of sleeping. And he felt at peace, whole, content. There were no bullets flying in his head, no poisonous words of self-hatred running in his veins, contaminating his blood. Just ... peace. And the feeling of soft lips on his skin, a cool hand on his.

He let his eyes close completely, they had started to droop after several seconds, and as soon as he did so, he could have sworn he felt another kiss, this one on his forehead and sending him into the first night of nightmare-free sleep Pete had experienced in a long time.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Should I continue this? I mean, I have an *idea* where this could go if I write some more... Let me know what y'all think. Thank you so much for reading, and stay safe, friends! <3


End file.
